


Of Monsters and Men

by Polarbears_at_lunchtime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, WHY did Sirius Black go to Azkaban?, not NOT canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polarbears_at_lunchtime/pseuds/Polarbears_at_lunchtime
Summary: On the eve of a new war, revelations from the past are uncovered.
Relationships: (possibly) - Relationship, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 19





	Of Monsters and Men

It’s late by the time the last of the Order members have trickled out of Grimmauld Place.

The fire is still spitting green sparks after the final Floo passage, and the air still leaks with ignited energy—not of the magical sort, but of the kind that lingers when ideas are tossed in the air and minds of similar passion and shared ideals gather in one place.

It’s had a definite effect on Sirius, who’s still flitting about while keeping up a continuous stream of commentary. He’d followed Remus around as he’d tidied up behind the departed guests—picking up the umbrella stand Tonks had tripped over, setting aside for later collection the yo-yo Arthur had left behind—too caught up in his excitement to help with the cleaning effort.

That had made Remus smile fondly; too pleased at seeing his cooped-up friend enlivened by the evening to mind the chatter, and too nostalgic for years of finding Sirius’ quills strewn throughout the dormitory and Sirius’ socks turning up in place’s as odd as _Remus’ bookbag_ to have expected the disarray that Remus was amending to even register on Sirius.

“Minnie looks good, don’t you think? Not a day over… say Moony, how old is she now? I never could figure. Always seemed sort of immortal to me, I suppose—may she reign supreme over Gryffindor forever. _Alastor_ , though, now _he_ looks…grizzled is the word for it, I reckon. And what’s up with that eye? It’s smashing, only I thought probably oughtn’t say so, in case he offered to install one on me…”

“They call him Mad-Eye now,” Remus confirms. Deciding the place is adequately tidied, he heads to the kitchen to set a pot of tea on the stove. Strategizing to fight evil is all well and good, but it is important to not let it get in the way of one’s tea.

“Honestly, I think he loves the name,” Remus continues. “And the eye, too. He can watch his own six now, which must be a dream come true for him.”

Sirius snorts. “That’s right, I’d almost forgotten. _Constant vigilance!_ ”

Seeing Remus reach for the box of tea, Sirius makes a noise of exaggerated, disappointed dismay.

“ _Tea_ , Moony? Really? Come on now! I thought I raised you better than that. As of tonight, the Order of the Phoenix rises again! I think this calls for something a little more celebratory.”

He reaches over Remus to take down the bottle of Ogden’s and waggles it temptingly in front of his face. Remus rolls his eyes and pours hot water into his own mug, savoring the bloom of herbal scent that rises from the steam.

“What could be more wildly celebratory than a piping cup of earl grey?” Remus teases. “With honey, no less.”

Sirius tuts mock-reprovingly but follows him to the table.

“And here I was looking forward to living with you. Two young bachelors in London, and you want to sit in and drink tea. Merlin save me from your fusty old man ways.”

“Old man? You’re six months my elder. What does that make you, then?”

“Eternally young at heart, of course,” Sirius declares grandly. “Just as _you_ have been an inveterate, cardigan-sporting geriatric since you were eleven—and probably well before then, too.”

Remus smiles crookedly. “One is never too young to enjoy a crossword or a nice sit out on the porch.”

“Stitched that on a needlepoint cushion, did you?” He only laughs louder as Remus shoves him. “Yes, well, do keep a seat open in this hypothetical porch for me, old friend. I’ll need somewhere to ride out the hangover I shall endure after my hypothetical roaring good time the night prior.”

“Consider yourself hypothetically invited.”

Sirius winks. “Such a pal, Moony.”

“Hypothetically,” he smiles.

“Factually,” Sirius corrects. His smirk fades into a more earnest look. “Unquestionably.”

Remus lets out a resigned sigh that somehow turns into a slightly stale huff of laughter.

“Most people would disagree with you there,” he points out. “On the basis of finding my very existence among them to be highly questionable.”

He isn’t bitter about it. It is one of those things he has stopped permitting himself to be unhappy about.

“Well, they’re fools, then. Obviously.”

Remus’ only answer is a sad smile.

He’s heard this before—all the reassurances that _it really doesn’t matter to us_ , _honestly_. And that’s all well and good, right up until something comes up, and then suddenly _it does._ Even tonight he’d fielded some uncertain looks from Miss Tonks and a few wary glances from Kingsley Shacklebolt.

It’s alright, though; he is used to suspicion. Now, he understands better that this is just the way these things just are. He didn’t used to grasp that.

Looking back to the First War all those year ago, dark though things were, he’d been impossibly, ridiculously naïve. He’d thought the suspicion wouldn’t last. He’d thought it didn’t matter. He’d _thought_ the Marauders had been the exception to that distrust.

He’d been wrong, apparently, and it had cost them everything.

Regardless of Peter’s role in the matter, at the end of the day, Sirius had doubted him. Or maybe, worse: he had truly _believed_ Remus to be the traitor. Whether for being a werewolf, or for some other unknown reason, Remus will never know.

He could ask Sirius, of course. They’re back to living together, working together… it would be the simplest thing to find out.

It would be the simplest thing to just ask for that one answer--

\--And the hardest thing in the world to live with it afterward.

The more he thinks on it, the more certain he is that he _doesn’t_ want to know. Because he isn’t sure which answer would hurt more, and no doubt it would be whichever one that did.

So perhaps it’s better if he just forgets. Or tries to.

Sirius seems to know, instinctually, where his thoughts have gone.

“It’ll be different this time, you’ll see,” he says, quite seriously, and he’s so earnest, Remus almost even believes him for a moment.

Just for one moment, though.

“Maybe it _is_ a night for firewhiskey, if we’re going to get maudlin anyway,” he decides.

This distracts Sirius just as he’d hoped it would. His friend rushes to fetch another glass, an outlet for his manic energy.

Sirius loves it when Remus drinks with him, because on the rare occasion Remus does, trying to keep up with Padfoot invariably gets him smashed—an apparently hilarious result, if Prongs’ and Padfoot’s tales were to be believed.

(Something about his lycanthropy means he doesn’t handle the liquor well, he maintains. Sirius claims he’s just a lightweight. They might both be right.)

Half a bottle in, it’s apparent that the last decade has improved neither of their tolerance for spirits. It feels like they’re seventeen all over again, with booze from Hogsmeade smuggled into some hidden nook in the school. It goes down smooth, burning just a little, and the conversation is easy, good.

“Ugh. That’s revolting, Padfoot,” he chides, as Sirius tips his glass back and runs his tongue over it to get the last drop in it-- disapproval warring with amusement. Sirius just laughs and exaggerates the action. Remus rolls his eyes. Amusement wins out, as usual. “Sometimes I think you became a dog just so you could lick things.”

“Hmm, no, it was definitely for the ear scratches.”

For the most part through their conversation, Sirius is fervent in his declarations and animated in his talk, fueled by the same manic energy that has possessed him seemingly ever since he’s escaped Azkaban. He’s restless, and there’s a buzz underneath the skin that seems impossible to settle, even with the firewhiskey.

The conversation turns to Hogwarts, unsurprisingly, and Padfoot is alight with enthusiasm for stories of Remus’ short time as professor.

“To think, Moony!” Sirius exclaims, under the influence of some sudden epiphany, apparently. “The _only_ Defense teacher those poor children have had who _wasn’t_ a secret criminal or henchman of You-Know-Who in all their years at Hogwarts—was you!” He looks torn between dismay and hilarity. “Where does Albus _find_ these people?”

“The Ministry’s list of open investigations?” Remus smiled faintly. Goodness knows they all _ought_ to have been under investigation.

Sirius is shaking his head. “Kids can’t even feel safe at _Hogwarts_ anymore. Merlin, we’re going to end up with a whole generation of paranoid little Moody’s!

“ _Constant vigilance_ ,” he imitates Alastor’s abrupt growl. _“I trust no one but my own mother—and when it comes to chocolate frogs, not even her_!”

Remus actually likes Mad-Eye quite a bit, but his paranoid catchphrases _are_ a bit amusing. He smiles into his glass.

Sirius snorts at his own joke, but the expression on his face goes abruptly rather sour.

“Wish they’d take their own advice.”

Ah, Peter, then.

The humor in the room wilts a little. Reality keeps seeping in.

“‘It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them’,” Remus quotes. “Or so everyone tried to tell me back then,” he adds tiredly. “You know, _After_. When I was wallowing, and we all thought you had pulled the long con on us.”

Sirius grimaces at the reminder. “Who said that? Dumbledore?”

He laughs sharply. “It does sound like one of his platitudes, doesn’t it? But no, Confucius, originally,” he admits. Sirius’ face remains blank. “… A Muggle.”

“Ah. Clever them.”

“Hm,” he hums. He sometimes wonders if Sirius realizes just how very pureblooded he sounds at times.

“Well, I always _have_ been an expert in bringing shame upon myself, as bloody Walburga _so_ loved to remind me. With both great volume and frequency.”

It really is a night for old wounds, it seems, if Sirius is willing to speak of his horrid mother.

“That woman wouldn’t know real honor if it bit her on the arse.”

A snort from Sirius. “Too right. I shall just content myself with that fond dream of mine... that somewhere at some time, something with far pointier teeth than honor _did_ come to bite her in the arse.”

The mirth fades from Sirius’ face and he sets down his glass, glancing guiltily toward Remus.

“She may have been a bitch, but she was right in the end. I _did_ distrust you,” he says, dark eyebrows tilted in dismay, looking inexpressibly appalled. Landing once again on that topic that looms so large around them, always, and that they speak of, never.

“ _You_ , Moony. Of all people… _Merlin_ ,” Sirius swears. “I was such a fool. I thought… all those things he said about you….” He shakes himself out of it angrily, “But when did I _ever_ listen to _Peter_ before?”

Remus looks thoughtfully into his tea. “I suppose that was the problem. We—none of us ever paid him enough attention.”

“ _That’s no bloody reason to betray your friends_ ,” he bites out. It’s almost a snarl, near-canine in its ferocity. It pulls at a memory.

 _Then you should have died! **Died** , rather than betray your friends—as we would have done for you, _Sirius had said in the shack.

He really would’ve, Remus knows.

Would’ve died for them, killed for them, never mind that that was the last thing Remus wanted from him.

In the aftermath, when it had been all over and it had been only Remus left standing, (in the wreckage of the once-beautiful, bright, shining thing that had once been _James-Peter-Lily-Sirius-Remus_ , and that was now _J ~~ames-Peter-Lily-Sirius~~ -Remus)_, he had wished, so desperately, that he could have done the same.

Could’ve died for them. With them.

While the war had still raged, when his list of friends had been ticked off one by one— ~~Marlene~~ , ~~Benjy~~ , ~~Dorcas~~ , ~~Caradoc~~ , ~~Gid,~~ ~~Fab—~~ it had felt like the crumbling of his world. Each expiring (like bright stars blinking out) in what had, at first, seemed like a series of dark and terrible endings.

But when _they_ had died (he could barely bring himself say _their_ names in those terrible early days), those four that had meant the most to him (for the Sirius he _thought_ he had known had seemed the most dead of all), it had meant the collapse of everything; near every single thing he had loved.

And then all those endings (once so dark, so bleak) started to seem more like blazing pyres of glory: a sacrifice and an escape all in one.

And he’d begun to wish he’d had one too. Better to die with worth, with love, than to live without either. Better to die for a purpose, in an instant, instead of wasting away, drifting apart bit by bit like the ash and dust they’d all left behind.

In those days (those terrible, lightless days where the fireworks that exploded in the streets tore at him like so many bombs), it would have meant more had Sirius _not_ been so willing to go like the rest. It would have meant _so much more_ if Sirius had instead been willing to _live_ for him, rather than been eager to kill or die or surrender to that glorious, righteous blaze.

That he chose _not_ to almost hurt more than them thinking Remus traitor.

He realizes, suddenly, that the silence has gone on almost too long. As these thoughts cycled through, not for the first time. He looks up to find Sirius watching him, and that is still comfortable, he is a bit surprised to find.

Another habit they had slipped back into smooth as breathing; Moony lost in his head, and Padfoot waiting, watching, studying his face for the map of where he’d gone off to.

“You want to ask me something,” Sirius says, and he’s right.

(Sirius always was good with maps.)

It’s now or never, probably. You don’t put off the important conversations in wartime, because nowhere are you promised another chance to have them.

He takes a steadying breath.

“Why did you go to Azkaban?”

There’s a beat.

Then, “Son of a basilisk, you don’t mince words do you.”

Sirius shakes his head, a little thrown, before knocking back his shot of firewhiskey. He grimaces as he swallows. “Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer for it…”

“No…but you didn’t exactly protest it, either,” Remus says slowly. “You could have—I dunno, defended yourself. At least a little. And maybe _told everyone the truth about Peter_ …. I mean, _Sirius_.” He says it like a swear. “Did you just not feel like clarifying that, when you said _I killed Lily and James,_ you didna mean _literally_?”

Remus’ Scottish brogue is growing thicker, as it tends to when he’s upset, but he can’t bring himself to bother tone it down.

“I mean. If—if you’d even _explained_ to Dumbledore, I’m _sure_ he could’ve sorted things out sooner and rather than waiting for _years_ until you figured you could break out of Azkaban,” Remus continues.

It’s all spilling out now. After twelve years of WHY running through his bones, he’s got two years’ worth of new _whys_ shooting down his nerves, and damn it if he’s not getting answers tonight.

“I mean, he got bloody _Snape_ off without so much as a slap on the wrist, and the man’s got the damn Dark Mark crawling up his arm, not to mention the personality of a reanimated bat!”

The edge of Sirius’ mouth twitches, because Snape is a topic he can _never_ resist weighing in on with relish and vitriol.

The fact that he contains himself now tells Remus just how much this silence means.

It drains the fight and all the frantic energy right out of him, and he wraps both hands around his empty glass of firewhiskey just for something to hang on to.

Softer now, he says, “We could have been hunting down Peter together all these years,” and it sounds so much like a plea (like too much of his desperation seeped in) that Remus winces. But continues anyway because he needs to get this out, now. “You left Peter to get away scot-free; you left _Harry_ with those horrid people; and you left… me.”

He trails off.

“… So _why_ didn’t you fight it?”

He looks up from his glass.

Sirius is watching him with dark eyes. Sad and soulful, they remind him of Padfoot, of Grimms, of loping black dogs, of soft-treading death. Of so many things he’d welcomed and wished for and perhaps never fully understood.

Just when he thinks Sirius is not going to answer him, he does.

“Because I knew I was guilty.”

Remus shakes his head. No, no, _no_. He knows. He _knows_. He’s tired, and he knows this part already. _So_ well; _too_ well. He felt that way too, but what good did that do?

“No more than the rest of us. We _all_ should have seen. Should’ve known Peter for what he was sooner, but none of _us_ went to Azkaban for it. Sirius—"

 _“No.’_ ”

It’s harsh and louder than they’d been speaking. Remus falls abruptly silent in surprise. Sirius softens.

“No, Moony,” he says, gentler. “I was _guilty_.” Remus opens his mouth again, but Sirius lifts a hand. “—and I _don’t_ mean of failing James and Lily and you. Though Merlin knows I did that too,” he adds in a mutter. Hands twitching, he hesitates, then knocks back his scotch. Swallows, and faces Remus head-on.

“You heard what happened that day?”

Remus pauses. Nods gravely.

He’ll never forget. Even exhausted—as moon-stretched, claw-sliced, bone-tired as he was that morning, the morning after the full—he remembers with perfect clarity. Alastor, white-faced and pitying, his roving eye stock-still for once. A gruff, old auror trying to break world-shattering news as painlessly as he could, in that shabby, worn flat.

“Then you know the story. The explosion. The thirteen muggles. The finger.”

He knows this too, but what he doesn’t know is _why_.

“Yes, but Sirius, why didn’t you tell them it was _Peter_ that killed them? _Why—”_

“Why didn't you tell them about us?” Sirius cuts him off.

His voice sounds calmly curious, but there’s some tension running through him that Remus doesn’t understand. He keeps skirting Remus’ questions, asking his own.

“About the rat and the dog,” Sirius continues. “Why didn't you tell anyone about _Padfoot_?” He seems to be searching Remus’ gaze for something. For what, exactly, Remus doesn't know.

Remus sighs, leans back. “Honestly, Sirius? I don’t know.”

This—more than anything else he’s said yet—seems to surprise Sirius. That bookish, swotty Moony doesn’t have the answers. That Prefect Remus Lupin didn’t mind the rules.

It shouldn’t surprise him, though. Because whatever else he was, he was _also_ a Marauder ( _will always be_ a Marauder), and there are some secrets too important to be shared, some bonds to sacred to be broken. (Or so they’d all thought; Peter had disagreed).

Their friendship was one forged on confidences kept, and furtive pranks. It was a conspiracy as much as a comradeship—one it was far, far too late now to dissolve. It was all he’d had left to cling to when all that he’d loved had gone (the very last thing he’d had left of them), and it was something Remus couldn’t bring himself to violate.

Something he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Sirius had either.

“It would have been so final. Another betrayal between the four of us,” he says, then sighs. “It would’ve meant truly, finally condemning you… and that was something I couldn’t do. Because I could never fully believe you’d done what they’d said you’d done.

“ _I thought:_ it must be some trick,” he recalls. He glances at Sirius, whose face is carefully blank, and continues.

“Polyjuice. Or Imperius. Or, or, maybe they tortured it out of you, and you fought so hard, held out so long, that your mind broke. Like Alice and Frank, only… more violent.

“I had a million scenarios and every time I almost said something—almost told Dumbledore—one of them would come to mind, and I’d think… what _if?_

“And, truth be told, I somehow felt Albus knew. I mean, how could he not? Hogwarts is—I mean, the man sees everything. And, by God, we were _not that subtle_. With the nicknames and gallivanting across the grounds once a month. The change in the wolf's behavior—tearing myself and the Shack to pieces one month then suddenly drastically better the next and from then on.

“I convinced myself it was one of those things he knew but wouldn’t say directly—you know what he’s like. I convinced myself it didn't matter. That you were the only one left anyhow and what good could it do you in Azkaban?”

“And after?” Sirius prompts. “Once I was out, you still didn't say anything?”

His gaze never leaves Sirius’ face.

“I convinced myself you’d never hurt Harry. If there was anything left at all of the man that I knew … you wouldn’t hurt Harry.”

The moment breaks, and Remus gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ll admit it didn’t make the most sense, given that you had supposedly attempted to do precisely that in 1981, but then, none of it _ever_ made sense to me, so what the hell did any of it mean?”

1981 had become a taboo in the brain of Remus Lupin. It was like a Dementor, conjured by its very mention, that sucked all the breath from his lungs and the joy from the room. But now he plunges towards it headlong, into the old memories with Sirius at his side like a Patronus.

“I was a mess, afterward. It was all such a mess. You should have _seen_ the investigation. It was such a farce, Sirius.” He shakes his head. _“Our government_. I don’t know why I was surprised, though.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. That seems to be happening quite a lot tonight. “I, of all people, should know what they’re like… Or _I, of all dark creatures,_ rather. Because that is how I am categorized, you know.”

He glances at Sirius briefly, who is still uncharacteristically quiet.

“I was the only one to testify on your behalf,” Remus continues. “And it was ruled inadmissible due to my ‘lycanthropic tendencies’. And they obviously _didn’t even_ _check_ the spells your wand cast…”

“But they did, Moony,” he says then, _so_ quietly.

Remus is too tired, his head too fuzzy to understand at first. His face scrunches in confusion.

“What?”

“They did check.” The pause stretches out for miles. “ _I_ cast the _Confringo_.”

“But… the muggles… Peter…”

A hungry lean forward, and suddenly, Sirius is not meek but pleading, arguing, desperate.

“I was so angry, do you understand? I was furious. _I wanted to kill him so badly, **you have no idea**_ **—"**

Remus sits numbly… A horrible sort of understanding is sinking in. It must show on his face.

Sirius reaches for his wrist where Remus’ hand sits on the table, and he is suddenly overwhelmed once again by the symmetry to that night in the Shack.

_I didn't mean to! The Dark Lord. **You have no idea** the weapons he possesses! _

Overlapping like ghosts, Peter-Sirius appeal to him. One on his knees, twitching with terror; the other hunched over, shaking with emotion. Asking forbearing, forgiving Moony for their penance, their absolution.

He had withheld it from Peter for his lies, his treachery, his cowardice. But, Sirius—

His hand slips off the table like a dead weight. Not a rejection, just a physical sign of the spreading numbness, but when he looks, he finds Sirius’ face twisted in pain.

“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m a monster. _Don’t you_ _understand_? It was an accident, Remus,” he pauses. Then quieter: “I thought you of all people would understand.”

Remus recoils. “What, because _I’m_ a monster?”

 _“No!_ Because you _know_ … that it’s so easy to hurt people without meaning to.”

Remus wants to laugh. He wants to cry, or scream, or break something _. It’s so easy to hurt people without meaning to._

Remus _does_ know this. His entire _life_ is a series of precautions and procedures to make _damn well sure_ he doesn’t hurt anyone without meaning to. When you turn into a slavering, bloodthirsty beast once every 29 days, you spend the other 28 keenly aware of how careful you must be, how you must _never_ slip up, how incredibly fragile people are.

For all that _Remus_ is the dangerous one, it has always been Sirius that gets people hurt. Rarely on purpose, almost never by intention, but _hurt_ , nonetheless. Wounded feelings for sharp words, impish pranks that cause just a little too much destruction, a little too much collateral damage.

He’s rarely cruel, but often thoughtless, but sometimes Remus wonders if that isn’t just as bad when the result is the same and the damage is done.

When the receipt is _thirteen human lives._

And here he is, breath knocked out of him once again.

He’s been here before—being told Sirius is a killer—and it’s just as staggering this time around, hearing it from the man himself.

Sirius is looking at him still, with those puppy dog eyes, the ones he’s had since even before he had the paws and fur to match. Eyes that he once knew.

His gaze falls to the floor, and they sit. The silence grows.

“Say something, Moony. _Anything_.”

The moon is watching from outside. Waxing gibbous.

Three days until he’s a monster again. Until he spends the night howling at the sky, alone except for a black dog.

Some things in life are inescapable. Some things happen only by choice.

Remus has always had a hard time deciding which of those two everything that existed between him and Sirius was.

They are a conspiracy as much as a comradeship. Theirs is a bond of secrets and sometimes lies, but _never_ to each other. Between them, there is only the truth.

However sharp it might be. However much it might hurt.

And it _does_ —hurt.

But there are other truths they hold close that hurt less.

The truth is that there will always be a Moony-and-Padfoot, a Sirius-and-Remus.

They transform, and they change, and sometimes they have claws and they are dangerous, but they are still linked together by something too big to be spoken of and too deep to be broken.

A twelve-year-old boy, covered in scars and scratches and full of fear, once stood in front of another boy, one with a head of fine black hair. A boy who had just learned his deepest, darkest secret. He had braced himself for the fear, the disgust, the word ‘monster’. He had waited for the end. But the black-haired boy had just put out a hand and said, _It’s okay. I know you. You’re my friend._

Some things in life are inescapable.

Some things happen only by choice.

Remus looks up at Sirius. He reaches out his hand.

Sirius takes it and holds on, _tight_.


End file.
